


Defiled

by beetle



Series: Dawn of a New Age [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: "Defiled", LOTR, M/M, The Hobbit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ hobbit_kink prompt: "Azog the Defiler finally catches up with the group. He decides to torture Thorin a little but more by, well, defiling his precious halfling and making him watch. Whether Thorin rescues Bilbo or fails is entirely up to author."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Defiled 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: NON-CON. Spoiler-ish, but only if you squint. AU, because I took major liberties with the fight scene at the end of the movie and with the end of the book, basically wondering what would happen if the Eagles hadn't shown up so quickly, what would have happened if the other dwarves hadn't gotten to Bilbo and Thorin in time, and what would have happened had Erebor been retaken.
> 
> Disclaimer: JRR is probably spinning in his grave at what I'm doing to his beloved Hobbit.

Bilbo slays the first orc that comes at him and Thorin, but the pale orc on the white warg isn't so easily slain.  
  
The warg feints at Bilbo, and through some miracle—of the kind that had allowed him to slay that other warg a few minutes earlier—Bilbo swings his sword and squinches his eyes shut as he lands a blow.  
  
The warg goes down with a roar, Bilbo's sword embedded in its left cheek.   
  
The pale orc, Azog springs off its back before the warg even hits the ground, and has Bilbo caught in his grip—lifts him up easily by the throat, until they're eye to eye.  
  
Bilbo would shudder, if he weren't struggling just to breathe.  
  
Azog smiles and says something in orcish . . . something Bilbo's fairly sure he doesn't want to have translated, as those pale eyes look him over and the thin, cruel mouth sneers.  
  
Then Azog's walking toward Thorin, Bilbo struggling and trying to pry the orc's hand off his throat the whole way. He needn't have bothered. Once they're within spitting distance of Thorin, Azog drops Bilbo on the ground next to Thorin.  
  
 _We're about to die,_  Bilbo thinks, with an odd and featureless calm. He supposes he's as ready as he'll ever be, though his one regret is that he couldn't save Thorin. . . .  
  
He reaches out and touches Thorin's slack, unconscious face. He supposes it'll be his only chance to ever do so in this life.  
  
Azog gargles out something in orc-speak and laughs, and when Bilbo looks over his shoulder, Azog is . . . he's undoing the ties of the ragged piece of cloth around his waist. Not that that piece of cloth is doing much to conceal the huge hardness underneath.  
  
When the cloth drops to the ground, revealing a cruel spike of hard, pale flesh, Bilbo suddenly understands that death is not likely to be on the menu, just yet. For him or for Thorin.  
  
Then Azog is smiling at him. That smile is an evil promise that makes Bilbo shudder and try to scramble away, toward his sword, which is still buried in the white warg's cheek.  
  
Azog lets him crawl, following after him and laughing.  
  
Bilbo doesn't get very far, however, before the laughter stops and that cruel hand is on his neck, once more, this time pushing his face to the dusty ground.  
  
For a moment, nothing happens. Then Bilbo feels something sharp press against his back and hook into the waistband of his trousers, which are summarily ripped away from his body.  
  
“No!” Bilbo screams and flails. But that does little or nothing to slow down Azog, who Bilbo can sense looming very close behind him. Then there's the press of hot, hairless orc-flesh pressed to his backside, his thighs, and his calves, and Bilbo gags.  
  
Azog presses his erection forward, till it rests just against Bilbi's hole, and . . .  _this isn't happeneing, this isn't happening_  . . . he leans down to run his tongue down the auricle of Bilbo's right ear.  
  
“Scream for your dwarf-lover to hear,” he growls, driving his hips forward hard and fast.  
  
And Bilbo does. He screams and screams . . . and screams some more. And before he finally swoons into a half-conscious place where only pain exists, his last thoughts are of Thorin . . . he hopes Thorin survives this, somehow.  
  
And he hopes his own death, after this . . . defilement, is swift and painless.  
  


*

  
  
Thorin, aching all over and barely conscious hears heart-rending screams and opens his eyes to a sight that brings him to full consciousness, and will haunt him for the rest of his days.  
  
Bilbo, on his stomach, with Azog kneeling behind him, the burglar's pale, slender thighs pulled up over his own. Azog is snapping his hips forward hard and fast, and each time he does, it drives the halfling's small, limp frame forward . . . only for Azog to pull him back by the hips.  
  
Thorin tries to sit up, despite feeling as if every bone in his body has suffered a break—he tries. But his body won't respond to the commands he gives it, not in any useful way. Meanwhile, those horrible screams have stopped, and Azog is laughing that gravelly, awful orc-laughter. He's gazing over at Thorin with cold curiosity.  
  
“Do you think to save him?” he asks Thorin, smiling almost gently. “ _I think_  it's far too late for that,” he grunts, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as his entire body stills and he throws back his head and roars, his savage, obscene satisfaction echoing into the pre-dawn air.  
  
“No—” Thorin tries, with one final surge to get to his feet, and it almost works.  
  
Almost.  
  
But instead of his body obeying him, it strains and struggles to get upright before falling back onto it's side, leaving Thorin at even more of a disadvantage. Meanwhile Azog is watching him once more, breathing heavily, but still smiling.  
  
“Now watch, son of Thrain, as I cut his throat.”  
  
Azog grasps Bilbo's head by the hair and pulls it up. Bilbo's face is pale, his eyes closed, as if he's already dead. Azog puts his other arm, the one that's been replaced by knives and daggers, to Bilbo's throat.  
  
" _No_. . . ." Thorin gasps, his heart seizing in his chest. . . .  
  
At that moment, two things happen:  
  
There's a loud screech from above and to the west of them. And Azog is tackled to the ground by Fili and Kili.  
  
Thorin's heart starts beating again, and he pants dizzily in relief as the trio goes rolling away from Bilbo and a few of the rest of the fellowship wade into the fray against the other, watching orcs and their impatient wargs.  
  
And that screech sounds again, from almost directly above, followed by a large talon coming down and scooping up a still unconscious Bilbo.  
  
 _Eagles_ , Thorin thinks, with another wave of relief washing over him.  _The Eagles have come to save us_. . . .  
  
Then he, too, is being scooped up in rough talons. It's all he can do to hold on to Orcrist.  
  
The oaken shield is lost.  
  


*

  
  
When next Thorin opens his eyes, it's to Gandalf leaning over him with weary, worried eyes.  
  
“Where's the burglar?” Thorin demands, attempting to sit up, and finding that, while not easy, it is possible. He looks around the sunny outcropping of rocks he finds himself on and sees the whole company standying here and there . . . except for their burglar.  
  
No sign of Bilbo Baggins, whatsoever. And Thorin is about to ask again, when he spots what he'd first taken to be a small pile of their belongings until he remembers:  _We have no belongings. They're lost to the goblins._  
  
Thorin is up on his feet and approaching that too-small bundle before he realizes he's standing, waving away hands that try to help him, or hold him back.  
  
When he gets to the bundle, he finds that it is their burglar, covered entirely in cloaks and coats, but for his pale, bruised, dusty face. And but for the very slight rise of his chest, Thorin would have thought he was dead.  
  
Thorin hangs his head and closes his eyes, seeing on the backs of his lids what Azog had done to the halfling. He doubts there will come a time when he  _doesn't_  see it.  
  
 _My fault_ , he thinks heavily, the backs of his eyes stinging. A hand settles on his shoulder, and he shrugs it away. But it comes back, and this time he lets it be.  _I failed to protect you . . . thought my quest for personal vengeance was more important than the company. And this is the result. . . ._  
  
“I thought it best to let him sleep for a while,” Gandalf says quietly. “He needs the rest. And the time to heal.”  
  
“Will he ever?” Thorin asks, opening his eyes to gaze down at Bilbo. He looks like a child, but for the smile lines around his mouth and eyes.  
  
But for what Thorin  _knows_.  
  
“Physically? I believe he'll recover fully. My talents at healing aren't as great as Lord Elrond's but they were adequate to repair much of the physical damage . . . to some extent. The rest will have to heal with time and care.”  
  
Thorin looks up at Gandalf, not even bothering to hide the shine of tears in his eyes. “And his mind? What of that?”  
  
Gandalf's care-worn face looks older than it ever has. “That remains to be seen, Thorin. Bilbo has led a heretofore sheltered life. And yet had he not, he still would have been unprepared to be . . . so violated.” He shakes his head and looks down at Bilbo again. “And I am the one who has brought him to this.  _I_  am responsible for what has been done to him.”  
  
Thorin snorts. “Was it your life he was defending, Gandalf? Was it you who ran straight into the Defiler's trap like a fool?” He swallows and kneels at Bilbo's side, brushing lank fringe off his face and leaning down to kiss his forehead. The skin is cool and soft.  
  
“I am sorry I ever doubted you, Bilbo Baggins, and on my life,” he swears grimly. “ _On my life_ , I will never let anything or anyone ever hurt you again.”  
  
“You cannot promise that, Thorin,” Gandalf says regretfully. “Not for as long as he's with this company.”  
  
“Yes, I can.” Thorin glances up at Gandalf again. “I'll look after him. Never again will he have to face such dangers, such . . .  _evil_. Never again.” Turning back to Bilbo, Thorin feels under the cloaks and coats for the halfling's hand and takes it, squeezing it tight. It's cold and clammy, and lax in his own. “This I promise.”  
  
Bilbo slumbers on. Thorin supposes that's for the best.


	2. Defiled 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the LJ hobbit_kink prompt: "Azog the Defiler finally catches up with the group. He decides to torture Thorin a little but more by, well, defiling his precious halfling and making him watch. Whether Thorin rescues Bilbo or fails is entirely up to author."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of NON-CON. Spoiler-ish, but only if you squint. AU, because I took major liberties with the fight scene at the end of the movie and the end of the book, basically wondering what would happen if the Eagles hadn't shown up so quickly, what would have happened if the other dwarves hadn't gotten to Bilbo and Thorin in time, and what would have happened had Erebor been retaken.
> 
> Disclaimer: JRR is probably spinning in his grave at what I'm doing to his beloved Hobbit.

Thorin and Gandalf carry the slumbering hobbit down from the high place where the Eagles left them, in a hastily constructed travois of tree branches scavenged from below, and several cloaks.  
  
Thorin is only barely willing to let Gandalf help him carry the halfling, but for the fact that he cannot safely do so alone. So he sets his jaw and nods when Gandalf places his staff in the travois with Bilbo, and lifts the other end.  
  
Thankfully, the way down isn't as treacherous as Thorin had feared when first looking down, and the company—silent, relieved to be alive, but equally demoralized—has no trouble scrambling down to the loamy, rich earth and emerald-green grass waiting below.  
  
It is an idyllic spot, lovely and peaceful . . . but Thorin and the others take no joy of it.  
  
They quickly, still silently, make their way toward a patchy bit of forest a few miles away, and the narrow ribbon of river that runs through it. When they're safely within the trees, and at the bank of that river, they halt.  
  
Thorin and Gandalf put down the travois gently, under the shade of an elm, and Thorin is immediately crouching by Bilbo's side, one hesitant hand hovering over Bilbo's cheek. Finally, he contents himself with brushing Bilbo's hair back from his pale, slack face.  
  
Gandalf's heavy hand descends upon his shoulder for the second time that morning.  
  
“After we've got a fire going and caught our lunch, I'll awaken him,” the wizard says quietly. Thorin sighs.  
  
“Do you deem it wise to do so, Gandalf. Perhaps . . . he might benefit from more rest than a few hours of disturbed slumber.” He means to look up at Gandalf, but can't take his eyes off of Bilbo. Never has the hobbit looked more fragile, more defenseless and vulnerable.  
  
And yet, this same fragile, defenseless, oh, so  _vulnerable_  hobbit had saved Thorin's life . . . at such a high cost to his own.  
  
“I must awaken him at sometime, Thorin, and I believe that time should be sooner rather than later.” Gandalf sighs, too, going to one knee to regard Bilbo more closely. “It will not be easy for him, no matter when he is awakened.”  
  
“I wish only to spare him further . . . distress.”  
  
“And yet you cannot, unless you are prepared to see him slumber thus forever.”  
  
Thorin blinks, the backs of his eyes stinging. This time, when he reaches out to Bilbo, the backs of his fingers ghost gently across the smooth, dusty cheek. And for a moment he smiles, rather fondly remembering how fastidious the hobbit tended to be when awake. But the smile fades almost as soon as it spreads across his face.  
  
“He will at least want to bathe, while we're near a river,” Thorin says, clearing his throat and standing up. He turns to face what he expects to be a scattered, bunch of dwarves, all seeking to do whatever they usually do when creating a campsite. Instead he finds them milling around behind him and Gandalf in a tight crowd. They are silent and grave to a dwarf—even Bofur looks somber, and has removed his ever-present hat.  
  
And he, in fact, is the one to step forward and speak.  
  
“Is there anything we can do for him, Thorin? Anything at all?” he asks quietly. And Thorin almost snaps at him—the time to do something had been  _before_  Azog had violated the hobbit, not now, in the grim aftermath of that violation.  
  
But Thorin recognizes such lashing out for what it truly is: guilt. It is not  _Bofur's_  fault that the hobbit suffered at Azog's hands.  
  
“You can go about setting up a campsite as usual, so that when he wakens, it will be to some form of comfort,” Thorin finally says, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. “And you are not to speak of what happened amongst yourselves, or to him. We will allow him his privacy and help him retain his dignity.”  
  
Now, Bofur frowns. But he nods, along with everyone else. A series of  _aye_ s moves through the crowd of dwarves. Then they're all off in different directions, going about the simple, but time-consuming business of setting up camp with no gear.  
  


*

  
  
The first thing Bilbo does, when roused from his mostly unnatural slumber is take a slightly deeper breath and smile, turning a crinkled face away from the morning sun.  
  
Then his eyes flutter open, immediately falling on Gandalf, who smiles down at him. “Welcome back, Bilbo Baggins.”  
  
“Gandalf,” Bilbo says hoarsely, still smiling. “I had the  _worst_  nightmare . . . can't remember what-all it was about, but I think—” his smile momentarily becomes a frown, before turning once more into that hopeful, hapless smile.  
  
And with that he attempts to sit up then flops back down. Gandalf puts a gently restraining hand on Bilbo's shoulder and he flinches away, the smile fading once more. “Don't . . . please don't,” he whispers almost inaudibly, shuddering and tugging his hands out from under all the cloaks and coats. He uses them to brace himself, then trying, once more, to sit up. In the process of doing so, his eyes fall on Thorin and he gasps, taking in the dwarf-king's battered visage.  
  
“What's happened to you?” he asks, reaching out as if to touch Thorin's face, only stopping himself at the last moment, his own face turning quite red. “A-are you alright?”  
  
Thorin nods once. “But it is I who should be asking you that question, Bilbo Baggins: Are  _you_ alright?”  
  
Bilbo's frown deepens and his brow furrows. “Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?” And so saying, he looks around, squinting at their surroundings, and at the sight of the company huddled over the fire, roasting the wild coneys they'd caught. A familiar sight, no doubt, but in unfamiliar environs. “Where are we?” He shakes his head, frowning down at the cloaks covering his legs. “The last I knew, we were. . . .”  
  
He looks up suddenly, panicked, eyes darting all around. “Wargs! The wargs were coming and—and—“  
  
“Hush, it's alright, we're safe, now,” Gandalf says, again reaching out to Bilbo, but aborting the gesture when Bilbo once more flinches away. His wary gaze seeks out Thorin for confirmation. Thorin nods again.  
  
“Aye, we're safe. We were rescued by Eagles.”  
  
Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up and that smile almost makes a comeback, small and incredulous. “Eagles?”  
  
Gandalf's own smile is wry, barely there. “ _Big_  ones.”  
  
“ _Bloody_  big, I'd imagine.” Bilbo snorts and looks around once again. “Well, this is a cause for celebration, is it not? Yet another daring escape by the skin of our teeth! Why is everyone so . . . quiet and sober?” He nods pointedly at the dwarves 'round the fire. “Is something else the matter?”  
  
Thorin glances at Gandalf, who once more looks every year of his true age, as he takes a deep breath. “Do you not remember what happened after the wargs attacked, Bilbo?”  
  
Bilbo's brow furrows again. “Well, of  _course_  I remember! They attacked, and by luck or miracle I killed one, and then . . . I think . . . I climbed a tree. . . .” he shakes his head as if to knock stuck memories loose. “Then I was . . . here. Oh, me. I  _don't_  remember what happened after that, do I?”  
  
Laughing a little, embarrassed, Bilbo runs a shaking hand through his hair, then feeling about his scalp. “Well, that's odd—did I hit my head? Yes, I must have. Gaffer Gamgee used to tell a tale about a hobbit who got knocked about the head really hard, once, and completely forgot who he was!” Bilbo laughs again, bright and carefree, and it causes the others to look over from the fire and lunch. “Well, obviously  _I_  wasn't hit  _that_  hard, thank goodness!”  
  
“Yes . . . thank goodness,” Gandalf says, glancing at Thorin, who only has eyes for Bilbo. The hobbit is smiling his usual self-effacing smile, and his eyes are bright and shining, if quizzical. He looks as he always has, in essence, and something about that tugs at heartstrings Thorin had long thought rotted away. “And you're . . . certain that you don't remember anything beyond slaying the warg and climbing that tree?”  
  
Bilbo shakes his head again. “Not a thing.” He seems blithely unconcerned with this fact. “Is that lunch I smell?” He suddenly throws back the cloaks—then yelps when he sees his half-naked state, pulling them back over himself. “Er . . . where are my trousers?”  
  
Gandalf sighs heavily. “Bilbo . . . I have something to tell you, about what happened after the wargs attacked—“  
  
“Perhaps that's a tale for another time,” Thorin interrupts to say, taking Gandalf's arm and standing up. Gandalf stands with him, following along when Thorin tugs him a short distance away.  
  
“Are you  _mad_?!” Thorin demands in a hissed whisper, whirling on the wizard. “By some blessing, he's forgotten about what happened to him, and you're going to  _remind him_?”  
  
Gandalf puts a hand on Thorin's shoulder. “Thorin . . . he has not forgotten. It's there, in his mind, buried so deep he doesn't see it, but a time may come when see it he  _must_. And anyway, if these memories are left to fester, in the dark, I cannot guarantee his mind will ever begin to truly heal and be whole.”  
  
Thorin hangs his head, his hand falling away from Gandalf's arm. “He is happy, wizard. He doesn't remember screaming and crying out for aide, and having no aide come. He doesn't remember Azog's knife at his throat. He doesn't remember—“  _that I was helpless to save him. That I failed him when he needed me most_. “He is better off, this way, can you not see?”  
  
“And did  _you_  not hear a word I have said, Thorin Oakenshield?” Gandalf demands in a quietly hissed whisper of his own. “These memories  _will_  claw their way to the surface. Some day. Better they do so when he is surrounded by friends and comrades. Better it happen in the safety of this dell, than in the caves of Erebor!” Leaning on his staff, Gandalf puts a hand on Thorin's shoulder again. “He must be brave enough to face up to what happened, Thorin, and  _we_  must be brave enough to help him.”  
  
Crossing his arms, Thorin tilts his chin up. “You consider  _that help_?” He snorts, shrugging away Gandalf's hand once more. “Save us all from the  _help_  of wizards and elves!”  
  
Gandalf's gaze turns hard, and Thorin realizes he's perhaps gone too far. But he refuses to take back what he said, claiming only: “This is neither the time nor the place for some idealized notion of what  _may_  help him heal. This is the  _real_  world, Gandalf, and there will be real consequences for forcing him to remember.”  
  
“Just as there will be real consequences for letting him go on forgetting.” Gandalf turns back toward Bilbo, who's watching them curiously, but without any real concern. He gives them a tiny wave when they look over at him, and more of that sunny smile. Gandalf takes a very deep, steadying breath. “I'm going to tell him, whether you like it, or not.”  
  
“Now?”  
  
Gandalf pauses. Sighs, and wipes a hand across his forehead. “Do you know of a better time?”  
  
“Well. . . .”  _after Erebor is retaken, perhaps? When I have the time and wherewithal to take care of him properly . . . to see that he has the best healers of the mind_ and _body?_  Thorin sighs again. “At least let him eat, first. Let him have a few moments of normalcy before destroying his peace of mind.”  
  
Gandalf glances back at Thorin, frowning in thought. “You really care for him,” he says. It's not a question. Thorin looks away.  
  
“He saved my life. At great personal cost to his own.” Thorin laughs ruefully, his mouth pursing. “I said that he would be a burden, that he would not survive in the wild. That he would have no place amongst us . . . I've never been so wrong in all my life.”  
  
“Perhaps you should tell Bilbo that,” Gandalf says gently, and Thorin's rueful laugh sounds again, quite without his permission.  
  
“How can I, after all that's happened? Such cold consolation would do him no good.”  
  
“You underestimate the power of a kind word, son of Thrain.”  
  
“Not when all I have done since our first meeting is belittle and wrong him.”  _And fail him_. Thorin looks away from Bilbo's sweet smile. It's not something he deserves. Not after . . . everything. “I owe him a great debt. And my allegiance.”  
  
“And yet, that's not all, is it? Debt and allegiance are cold things, Thorin. And what you feel for our burglar is many things, but it is not cold,” Gandalf says, still in that gentle voice, and Thorin is quick to glare at him, his face heating up. For a moment, anyway, he had completely forgotten himself, and said more than was wise.  
  
“Whether it is, or not, is none of your affair,” he says shortly, crossing his arms again. “He is a member of my company, and he has sacrificed himself for me. I owe him a professional and personal debt greater than I can ever repay . . . but that does not mean I won't try.”  
  
And with that, he stalks over to the fire and the rest of the fellowship to procure lunch for the hobbit. He can feel Gandalf's and Bilbo's eyes on him the entire way—both gazes thoughtful, but for entirely different reasons.


	3. Defiled 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the LJ hobbit_kink prompt: "Azog the Defiler finally catches up with the group. He decides to torture Thorin a little but more by, well, defiling his precious halfling and making him watch. Whether Thorin rescues Bilbo or fails is entirely up to author."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of NON-CON. Spoiler-ish, but only if you squint. AU, because I took major liberties with the fight scene at the end of the movie and the end of the book, basically wondering what would happen if the Eagles hadn't shown up so quickly, what would have happened if the other dwarves hadn't gotten to Bilbo and Thorin in time, and what would have happened had Erebor been retaken.
> 
> Disclaimer: JRR is probably spinning in his grave at what I'm doing to his beloved Hobbit.

The last thing Thorin wants is one of the others slipping and somehow saying something that brought back Bilbo's memory, so after securing his portion and Bilbo's of their meager lunch. Thorin goes back to the elm, under which Gandalf is sitting tailor-style next to Bilbo, who looks so distressed, Thorin is certain Gandalf has gone ahead and told him. . . .  
  
But then Bilbo turns those righteously indignant blue eyes on Thorin with such a look of relief, Thorin realizes he still doesn't know—doesn't  _remember_ —and that this must be something else.  
  
“What is it, Mister Baggins?”  
  
Bilbo blushes. “Not only does Gandalf keep putting me off about the whereabouts of my trousers, but he refuses to let me go and clean up before lunch!” He throws up his hands and glares at Gandalf, who looks at Thorin.  
  
“I felt it best, in light of our . . . discussion, for a bath to wait. I believe that some of Mister Baggins' . . . wounds might be a bit shocking to him, and also best discovered after a meal.”  
  
Thorin frowns, confused for a moment, then his eyes widen in understanding. And in that moment he knows that they could never have kept the knowledge of what happened to Bilbo a secret from him. Not with the extent and location of Bilbo's . . . injuries.  
  
In fact, unless Gandalf is a better healer than he thinks, Bilbo should still be in some pain now, simply sitting. . . .  
  
Thorin clears his throat and shoves both haunches of rabbit at Bilbo, his own appetite suddenly gone. “Eat. We can discuss the trousers and a bath, afterwards,” Thorin says gruffly, kneeling then adopting tailor-style, himself. Bilbo heaves a put-upon sigh.   
  
“That's what  _Gandalf_  said,” Bilbo huffs, holding up his haunches of rabbit. He sighs again and takes a tentative sniff of the left one. “I feel like a complete savage, I'll have you know . . . not washing up before lunch.”  
  
Thorin and Gandalf exchange a glance again, then turn carefully mild gazes to Bilbo, who's taken a bite of the haunch.  
  
For a few minutes, he eats without speaking, neither slowly nor quickly, not meeting either Thorin's gaze or Gandalf's. But as he chews, his face grows redder and redder, till it's practically maroon.  
  
“Are you two going to watch me eat both of these?” he finally asks, looking up at them, confused and upset. “Why're you staring at me? Why aren't we eating with the rest of the company? And for Haven's sake,  _where are my trousers_?”  
  
This last is asked in a low hiss. Thorin and Gandalf share another glance, this one intercepted by Bilbo, who really looks suspicious, now. “What aren't you telling me? What's going on?”  
  
“Finish your lunch. Then, if you're still so curious—“ Thorin begins tersely, but Bilbo makes a sweeping gesture with one hand and haunch.  
  
“But I'm curious  _now_!” he says, loudly enough, that Thorin can feel the gazes of the others on them, but all he has eyes for is the now-angry hobbit glaring at him. He's never seen Bilbo angry and it is quite an . . . affecting site. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright, and his face set in an attentive frown. “All I ask is that you treat me like a member of the company, and keep me apprised of the situation! Especially when it involves my trousers!”  
  
“Bilbo,” Gandalf starts placatingly, but Bilbo will not be placated. He leans forward, wincing, and placing the rabbit haunches reluctantly on the cloak covering his legs.  
  
“Does this have something to do with what happened after I hit my head?” he asks, his voice gone low again. “Why doesn't my head ache at all? Where's the lump? And why—?” Bilbo lowers his voice even more. “Why do I ache in . . . unusual places?”  
  
Thorin can feel Gandalf's gaze on him, but he doesn't look away from Bilbo. “I'll tell him, wizard,” he mumbles before Gandalf can say anything. “It is . . . my fault. The least I owe him is to be the one to tell him.”  
  
And surprisingly, Gandalf doesn't gainsay him.  
  
Thorin takes a deep breath and lets it out heavily. Bilbo frowns, looking half-resigned and half-reluctant. “Is it . . . that bad?”  
  
Thorin shakes his head. “It is . . . not good.”  
  
“So not good that—I've forgotten it entirely?” Bilbo snorts. “That's ridiculous. I have a particularly long memory for bad things that happen to me. Not that there've been many, but the things that  _have_  happened, I remember with complete clarity.”  
  
“Not this,” Thorin says hesitantly, rubbing his forehead. “Not . . . what Azog did to you.”  
  
Bilbo's brow furrows. “ _Azog_  . . . you mean the orc from Balin's story—er, about you? The orc you _killed_?”  
  
Thorin winces. “Azog survived. Without that arm, but somehow, he survived.” He pauses, looking into Bilbo's confused blue eyes. “He was leading the party of orcs and wargs that ambushed us. I was wounded in the fight with him.”  
  
“Oh, dear—that's—horrible!” Bilbo's confusion is replaced with warm concern, and it's all directed at Thorin. He even reaches out and covers Thorin's hand with his own, briefly. The contact makes them both shiver, though Thorin is certain it's for different reasons. “I'm so sorry . . . did he—is he dead,  _now_?”  
  
Thorin sighs again. “I do not know. The Eagles may have dispatched him, but . . . in my heart . . . I believe he still lives,” he says grimly, wishing he could lie to spare Bilbo future worry, but unable to tell anything  _but_  the truth, now that he's started telling it.  
  
“You said he—Azog—did something to me,” Bilbo prods, snapping Thorin out of his brooding, and Thorin looks up, into those worried, dreading eyes, and he sees that Gandalf is right. Somewhere, under the surface of his mind, Bilbo remembers. He  _knows_. Or at least he suspects.  
  
And as he's already proven, he's braver than Thorin, because instead of running from that truth and wanting to hide from it, he's making his way toward it.  
  
“What did he do, Thorin?” Bilbo asks quietly. Thorin hangs his head for a moment, then looks up, meeting Bilbo's eyes again. If the hobbit's going to be brave enough to face what happened to him, Thorin will be brave enough to, as Gandalf had said, help him face it.  
  
Thorin reaches out and places his rough hand on Bilbo's softer one. The hobbit flinches, but holds still, his trusting eyes never leaving Thorin's.  
  
“I have known many brave people in my time, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin says somberly, holding Bilbo's gaze even though it pains him. “Many people who've sacrificed limbs and lives not only to do good, but to prevent evil. I count you among the very bravest . . . among the ones who've sacrificed the most. Your heart is the purest I have ever had the honor of coming across, and an honor it  _is_  be your comrade.”  
  
Bilbo blinks in surprise, then smiles a little, glancing at Gandalf. “Am I dying? He's being far too kind to me.”  
  
“No, Bilbo, you will live a very long life,” Gandalf says kindly. “Very long, indeed.”  
  
“Then what's all this about my bravery and my pure heart?” Bilbo looks at Thorin again, his smile turned self-deprecating and wry. “A few hours ago, you couldn't stomach the sight of me. What's changed?”  
  
“You saved my life,” Thorin states simply but intensely squeezing Bilbo's hand in his own. “You risked yourself—put yourself between myself and Azog's wrath when I had fallen, and because you did so—“ the backs of Thorin's eyes are stinging again, and this time, tears fall. Bilbo certainly looks alarmed, now. He even reaches out to brush those tears away, his grubby—slightly greasy, now—but gentle fingers doing their level best to catch every tear. “Because you did so, and because I was unable to stand, let alone lift my sword . . .  _Azog_  was able to . . . violate you.”  
  
Bilbo sits back, his hand falling from Thorin's face, his eyes wide. “V-violate me . . . what do you mean,  _violate me_?” His voice is small and trembling. Horrified. Thorin misses the cool, soft brush of those fingers.  
  
“Azog . . . forced himself upon you,” Thorin whispers, finally bowing his head, unable to bear the look of shattered innocence in the hobbit's wide eyes. “It was my fault. I was unable to stop him. Unable to  _make him suffer_  for what he'd done . . . and for that, I'm sorrier than words can convey.”  
  
More tears—this time of frustration and rage—roll unbidden out of Thorin's eyes, and he buries his face in his hands.  
  
Gandalf's heavy hand settles on his shoulder, but what surprises him, what causes him to break down in earnest, his shoulders slumping, is the small, gentle hand that hesitantly lands on his head like a frightened bird.  
  
“It's not your fault,” Bilbo says in that shaking voice. “After all, you weren't the one doing the . . . violating.” Bilbo laughs a little, but there's no mirth in it whatsoever. “I guess now I know why he's called 'the Defiler.'” Another of those mirthless laughs, that stops as suddenly as if Bilbo's throat's been cut. “But  _why_  did he do . . .  _that_  to  _me_? Why not just kill me?”  
  
And Bilbo certainly sounds as if he'd have preferred that. Another stone that weighs heavily on Thorin's already burdened heart.  
  
He wipes his face, sniffing, and looks up, careful not to dislodge Bilbo's hand. The hobbit's face is chalk-white, but his eyes are dry and intent on Thorin. He tries to smile, but it's the most ghastly grimace Thorin's ever seen. “Why am I still alive?”  
  
Rage sweeps through Thorin once more, and he silently vows that he will live to see Azog fall, no matter how long it takes. “He wanted me to witness someone I . . . care for suffer before he killed us both.”  
  
Bilbo sighs, blinking back tears now, his hand falling away from Thorin's head. “You . . . you care for me?”  
  
“Even when I didn't want to,” Thorin admits, still unwilling to lie—not after all Bilbo has been through for him. “I was wounded and you came to my defense—you've saved my life—all our lives—when we were caught by those trolls . . . you stuck by us after the goblin attack, even when you could have escaped—you've  _continually_  stood by this company, have been the  _heart_  of it since you came running after us, contract in hand. . . .”  
  
Thorin shakes his head. “I care for you, very much, Bilbo Baggins,” he says, looking into Bilbo's stunned, shining eyes. “More than is wise.”  
  
“I . . . care for you, too.” Bilbo looks down at Thorin's large hand enclosing his own and shivers again. “S-so much so that if the price of your life was buying time by being . . . v-violated . . . then that's a price I'm willing to pay.”  
  
“Don't say that!” Thorin croaks out harshly, reaching out now to brush away  _Bilbo's_  falling tears. But they fall faster than he can catch. Another thing he fails at. “Rather I had  _died_  a thousand times than you be touched by him once!”  
  
Bilbo smiles again, and this time, it's almost a real one. “Thorin . . . I don't even remember what happened. And I don't  _want_  to remember.” The hobbit turns grim, pleading eyes on Gandalf. Thorin had completely forgotten the wizard's presence, and finds himself looking at Gandalf for reassurance, as well. “I don't have to remember, do I, Gandalf?”  
  
Sighing, Gandalf takes off his hat and places it on the ground next to his thigh. “I believe it would be better for you, in the long term, if you  _do_  remember. And as soon as possible. But there is no way to force the memories to return before they will. Even if there were, I'm sure that someone as wise in the ways of healing as, say, Lord Elrond would counsel against that.”  
  
Thorin lets out a breath in deep relief, turning back to Bilbo. “Then we would be wise to let those memories stay beneath the surface for the time being. Indeed, we can do nothing to resurrect them if they wish to  _remain_  buried.”  
  
“I—I agree,” Bilbo says tentatively, turning his hand in Thorin's, so he's holding it, as well as being held. He looks at Thorin and shrugs. “What's done is done. There's no going back, now. And . . . you're  _alive_ ,” he murrmurs wonderingly. This time, the smile  _is_  real. “I  _saved_  you.”  
  
Thorin nods. “Yes, you did.” And before he can stop himself, he's tugging Bilbo closer, till the hobbit is close enough to embrace. Bilbo stiffens, gasping slightly. But after a few seconds, he relaxes in Thorin's arms. He's so small and soft and fragile-seeming, that Thorin wants nothing more than to keep him like this forever . . . safe in his arms.  
  
Closing his eyes, he imagines never having had a chance to hold Bilbo thus. Imagines what it would have been like if Bilbo had been taken away from him—if Azog's knives had gotten a chance to work their evil purpose.  
  
Azog. . . .  
  
 _I will kill him for you,_  Thorin promises Bilbo silently, his face buried in the hobbit's limp curls. Despite everything that's happened, his hair still smells sweet, like new grass.  _His death will not be quick, and it will_ not _be painless._  
  
When Bilbo starts to sit back, Thorin quickly lets him go, noticing the fierce flush on the hobbit's face. His smile is the same hopeful, hapless one that Thorin's used to seeing. There is also, in it, the same sweetness and innocence that had first enchanted him all those weeks ago, despite his best efforts to remain unaffected by it and its wearer.  
  
It's as if, in this state of forgetfulness, Bilbo is untouched and unchanged.  
  
Thorin, his heart beating faster for no reason he can name, feels his own depressed spirits start to lift. He reaches out and brushes the hobbit's soft, smooth cheek with the backs of his fingers, pleased when this time, Bilbo doesn't flinch away or stiffen.  
  
“When Erebor is ours, you will never again want for safety or security,” he vows solemnly. “Never again will you be wearied by strife or hunger or endless marching. Never again will danger touch you. I will look after you till the end of my days. This, I swear.”  
  
Bilbo's smile takes on that quizzical cast Thorin is also used to seeing. “B-but why? Is it because you feel . . . I don't know, indebted to me because of what happened?” Now, the smile fades. “Or is it because you feel sorry for me, now that I'm . . . damaged goods?”  
  
“You are  _not_  damaged good, Bilbo Baggins.” Thorin's gaze is fierce, even when Bilbo shoots him an incredulous look. “You are . . . my friend. Dearer to me than the wealth of my people and more precious than the Arkenstone, itself.”  
  
Bilbo's eyes widen, and Thorin can also feel Gandalf's sudden, piercing gaze upon him. It causes him to color, and wonder if he's again, said too much. But the way Bilbo's looking at him—those trusting, shining eyes making Thorin feel more torn and helpless than he ever has—makes him wonder if, indeed, he's said enough.  
  
Then he shakes his head, clearing it of silly, pointless thoughts, and trying on a smile of his own. “My friend,” he says, and Bilbo's smile turns almost wry.  
  
“And you're . . . mine. My  _friend_ ,” he adds hastily, laughing a little, and looking down at his lap. “My friend.” He picks up the haunch he'd been dining on and takes a bite, making a face. “Forgive me, but I'm not especially hungry, anymore . . . would it be possible for me to wash up, now. I feel rather in need of a bath.”  
  
“Of course,” both Thorin and Gandalf say, getting to their feet—Gandalf donning his hat once more. Thorin meanwhile offers Bilbo his hand, his eyes steady on Bilbo's and vice versa.  
  
But there's no hesitation this time, no flinch. Bilbo reaches out and  _takes_  it.

 

 

Continued in . . . Dawn of a New Age: http://archiveofourown.org/works/746039


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